Damn Her
by imaginus75
Summary: Det. Benson has a distraction disorder.
1. Chapter 1

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Damn Her  
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She was slowly pacing, her words measured, her tone serious and her voice calm and controlled. She had them captivated, hanging on to her every word. This trial was in her pocket. There was no reasonable doubt left for them to cling to. I should have been listening. I should have been paying attention.

She said something about the defendant's only intention was to take advantage of the situation and the victim, not help her as he had claimed. Truth be told, the only thing that had my attention were her legs. I know it's chauvinistic and down right lewd of me, but I couldn't help it. Whenever she wore that baby blue suit with the skirt that ended above her knee and those black Jimmy Choo heels, my attention always seemed to stray where it wasn't supposed to, like the first time she ever wore that suit into our bull pen.

I was coming out of one of the interrogation rooms with Elliot and she was leaning her backside on the edge of my desk, talking to Fin and Munch. Elliot was saying something, but all I heard was white noise as my eyes locked in on her legs which were crossed at the ankles. Her calves were slender yet I imagined they were strong, and her porcelain skin, in my mind, was flawless and soft as a newborn's bottom.

"Try not to drool," I finally heard my partner whisper in my ear. Then and only then did I realize I had been gaping at her.

That moment was the beginning of my downfall. Thankfully Elliot had been the only one to notice, and unfortunately, he used it mercilessly against me every time she wore that same suit. I tried to play it cool, and over time, had even managed to force myself to stop gawking at her legs, especially whenever she was talking to me. The trick I learned was that if she was standing, I would stand beside her - thus eliminating any vantage points to sneak a glimpse of her limbs. If she sat down, I'd sit down somewhere that would place an object like a desk or table between us.

Furthermore, I had created a mantra for myself that I would mentally recite every time we were in the same room and her legs were on display - "Look at her eyes. Look at her eyes. Look at her eyes." And it served me well...for awhile.

One day, we were sitting in the bull pen and I heard the unmistakable sound of her Jimmy Choos click-clacking against the tiles in the hall. I tried to stay focused on the paperwork on my desk and knew, without looking, that my partner was smirking his ass off, knowing that I was desperately struggling not to look up as the sound of her approach grew closer.

Her light voice with an aristocratic lilt greeted us and she asked us about a case we were working on. I couldn't continue to bury my nose in the folder I had been transfixed on and forced myself to look up. I was doomed. Not only was she wearing that damn suit, she was now perched on Munch's desk, her legs crossed, one foot slightly moving as if tapping to an imaginary song. The only thought that ran through my mind was how it would feel to have those legs wrapped around my hips.

My mouth went dry; my breath caught in my throat; my heart pounded in my chest; my ears went deaf. I heard my partner's booming voice say something and was broken out of my physiological prison. *Look at her eyes. Look at her eyes. Look at her eyes.*

I looked up and froze. Her cerulean eyes were fixed on mine. I was mortified. She had caught me ogling her legs. I closed my mouth and swallowed hard. Then, the strangest thing happened. It lasted perhaps a tenth of a second but I'd be damned if I didn't see the tiniest smile on the corners of her lips before she looked away and continued to converse with my partner.

From that day forward, I developed a habit of blinking my eyes before I'd look at her, to assure myself that I'd focus on her eyes and her words and away from the rest of her body. She didn't make it any easier because she seemed to have expanded her wardrobe to include more skirt suits, and also developed a habit of sitting on Munch's desk with her legs crossed every time she wore a skirt. And every time, I swore there was a glint in her eyes and a smirk on the edges of her lips.

Damn her.


	2. Chapter 2

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Damn Her Pt.2  
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They say that the sense of smell can trigger emotions or memories long forgotten. Like the smell of fresh baked cookies will take some people back to their childhood, or the rich aroma of coffee can remind some people of their first date at a cafe. I've always had a keen sense of smell. I could pick out the smell of roasting chestnuts two blocks way, or if someone has just taken off their stinky running shoes in their office after a lunch time jog. But there is no scent in the world that can stop me in my tracks like the scent of one Detective Olivia Benson.

She didn't used to wear perfume when I first met her and started working with the Special Victims Squad. I think that back then, she was still trying to fit in with the guys and didn't want to stand out, and nothing made a woman stand out amongst a crowd of male cops more than perfume. It was later on, maybe a year after we'd been working together, after one Christmas, she started wearing perfume. It wasn't a strong scented one. In fact, it was very light, sweet and refreshing. I didn't know what the scent was, but I knew it was familiar, like I had smelled it somewhere before. I liked it.

It was a noticeable change for her and I had never pegged her as the type to buy perfume, so I assumed she had received it as a Christmas gift. I had silently thanked whomever her Chris Cringle was as the scent gave her the perfect balance of femininity and tough cop persona. It suited her well. Very well in fact.

I started finding myself missing her presence every time she'd leave my office, her perfume lingering momentarily in the air. Sometimes I'd go to Serena's office to talk to her and I'd catch the remnants of her visit and feel disappointed that I had just missed her. Eventually, I'd find myself stopping dead in my tracks along the New York City sidewalks when the familiar fragrance would rush past my nose, and I'd look around me for that unmistakable head of short bed-head brown hair.

Don't even get me started on my face to face meetings with her. At first, it wasn't a problem. It was a pleasant change from the musky aftershave that the other guys wore around the precinct. But then the night when the squad went undercover at Cassie Germaine's cello concert was my undoing. Standing in the observation room with her while Terry Willard was being interrogated, the combination of her little black dress and perfume made it practically impossible for me to focus on the interview in the other room. For the briefest of moments, I closed my eyes and silently inhaled her, the image of her in the black dress forever linked to the fresh citrus notes of her perfume in my mind.

She had begun talking and when I opened my eyes, I saw her glance at me with an amused look in her eyes. I had to consciously force myself to pay attention to her whenever we conversed. "Listen to her. Listen to her. Listen to her," was my mantra from that day forward.

And from that day forward, it seemed as though she was taunting me. Whenever I had to go see her, or she came to see me, she'd always stand close to me, as if to tease me. Not unlike how she was standing next to me at this moment.

She was doing it on purpose. I swear to God she was. She didn't have to stand that close to me while she was showing me some DNA reports. She could have just handed them to me and then told me what I was looking at. But instead, she was standing slightly behind me, her hand holding up the DNA results out in front of both of us to see. She was talking but her words weren't registering with me anymore. The only thing that registered with me was that she was in my personal space, practically touching me, and her essence was making me think thoughts that weren't very work friendly.

The light sweet scent invaded my nostrils and all I could think about was how much I wanted to turn around and bury my nose in the crook of her neck, feeling her pulse point on my lips. Was this part of her grand scheme? Was she trying to get a rise out of me?

*Snap out of it!* I mentally told myself and focused back on what she was showing me.

I managed to get through our meeting and headed back to my office. I've just been imagining it all, I told myself. My attraction to her and my obsession with her perfume was just that - MY obsession. She's just going about her own business, her own life. It was I who was hung up on her and causing myself all this distress. She wasn't wearing perfume for me. She was wearing it for herself, or maybe even for a guy.

I tried to distract myself from the imaginary lingering fragrance of Olivia Benson by cleaning up my office before I went home for the weekend. Folders on my desk were put away in the filing cabinet. Loose papers were discarded into the recycling bin. I went over to the small table in the corner where I often ate my lunch and organized the mess on it. More folders, more loose papers. When I reached the bottom of the pile, I saw a receipt lying on top of a magazine. I picked it up. It was a receipt for a lunch months ago, a lunch I fondly remembered that Detective Benson shared with me while we reviewed a case for trial. My eyes then landed on the magazine upon which the receipt had been sitting. It was opened to a full page ad for Hermes Eau d'Orange Verte perfume. I picked up the magazine and the all too familiar faint citrus bouquet from the scent strip on the page wafted up to my olfactory receptors. I had been reading that magazine when she came to my office for our lunch meeting. An involuntary smile etched itself upon my lips.

Damn her.  
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End file.
